Deeply thoughtful Dolan smoked half the cigarette and stared blankly in front of him. He knew of a back door opening on an alley. Perhaps the detectives had not thought to guard that! He tossed his cigarette away, entered the house with affected unconcern and closed the door. Running lightly through the long, unclean hall which extended the full length of the building he flung open the back door. He turned back instantly—just outside he had seen and recognized Detective Cunningham.
Then he had an inspiration! The roof! The building was four stories. He ran up the four flights lightly but rapidly and was half way up the short flight which led to the opening in the roof when he stopped. From above he caught the whiff of a bad cigar, then the measured tread of heavy boots. Another detective! With a sickening depression at his heart Dolan came softly down the stairs again, opened the door of his flat with a latch-key and entered.
Then and there he sat down to figure it all out. There seemed no escape for him. Every way out was blocked, and it was only a question of time before they would close in on him. He imagined now they were only waiting for his wife’s return. He could fight for his freedom of course—even kill one, perhaps two, of the detectives who were waiting for him. But that would only mean his own death. If he tried to run for it past either of the detectives he would get a shot in the back. And besides, murder was repugnant to Dolan’s artistic soul. It didn’t do any good. But could he warn Isabel, his wife? He feared she would walk into the trap as he had done, and she had had no connection of any sort with the affair.
Then, from a fear that his wife would return, there swiftly came a fear that she would not. He suddenly remembered that it was necessary for him to see her. The police could not connect her with the robbery in any way; they could only hold her for a time and then would be compelled to free her for her innocence of this particular crime was beyond question. And if he were taken before she returned she would be left penniless; and that was a thing which Dolan dreaded to contemplate. There was a spark of human tenderness in his heart and in prison it would be comforting to know that she was well cared for. If she would only come now he would tell her where the money—!
For ten minutes Dolan considered the question in all possible lights. A letter telling her where the money was? No. It would inevitably fall into the hands of the police. A cipher? She would never get it. How? How? How? Every moment he expected a clamour at the door which would mean that the police had come for him. They knew he was cornered. Whatever he did must be done quickly. Dolan took a long breath and started to roll another cigarette. With the thin white paper held in his left hand and tobacco bag raised in the other he had an inspiration.
For a little more than an hour after that he was left alone. Finally his quick ear caught the shuffle of stealthy feet in the hall, then came an imperative rap on the door. The police had evidently feared to wait longer. Dolan was leaning over a sewing machine when the summons came. Instinctively his hand closed on his revolver, then he tossed it aside and walked to the door.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Let us in, Dolan,” came the reply.
“That you, Downey?” Dolan inquired.
“Yes. Now don’t make any mistakes, Mort. There are three of us here and Cunningham is in the alley watching your windows. There’s no way out.”
For one instant—only an instant—Dolan hesitated. It was not that he was repentant; it was not that he feared prison—it was regret at being caught. He had planned it all so differently, and the little woman would be heartbroken. Finally, with a quick backward glance at the sewing machine, he opened the door. Three revolvers were thrust into his face with a unanimity that spoke well for the police opinion of the man. Dolan promptly raised his hands over his head.
“Oh, put down your guns,” he expostulated. “I’m not crazy. My gun is over on the couch there.”
Detective Downey, by a personal search, corroborated this statement then the revolvers were lowered.
“The chief wants you,” he said. “It’s about that Thirteenth National Bank robbery.”
“All right,” said Dolan, calmly and he held out his hands for the steel nippers.
“Now, Mort,” said Downey, ingratiatingly, “you can save us a lot of trouble by telling us where the money is.”
“Doubtless I could,” was the ambiguous response.
Detective Downey looked at him and understood. Cunningham was called in from the alley. He and Downey remained in the apartment and the other two men led Dolan away. In the natural course of events the prisoner appeared before Detective Mallory at Police Headquarters. They were well acquainted, professionally.
Dolan told everything frankly from the inception of the plan to the actual completion of the crime. The detective sat with his feet on his desk listening. At the end he leaned forward toward the prisoner.
“And where is the money?” he asked.
Dolan paused long enough to roll a cigarette.
“That’s my business,” he responded, pleasantly.
“You might just as well tell us,” insisted Detective Mallory. “We will find it, of course, and it will save us trouble.”
“I’ll just bet you a hat you don’t find it,” replied Dolan, and there was a glitter of triumph in his eyes. “On the level, between man and man now I will bet you a hat that you never find that money.”
“You’re on,” replied Detective Mallory. He looked keenly at his prisoner and his prisoner stared back without a quiver. “Did your wife get away with it?”
From the question Dolan surmised that she had not been arrested.
“No,” he answered.
“Is it in your flat?”
“Downey and Cunningham are searching now,” was the rejoinder. “They will report what they find.”
There was silence for several minutes as the two men—officer and prisoner—stared each at the other. When a thief takes refuge in a refusal to answer questions he becomes a difficult subject to handle. There was the “third degree” of course, but Dolan was the kind of man who would only laugh at that; the kind of man from whom anything less than physical torture could not bring a statement if he didn’t choose to make it. Detective Mallory was perfectly aware of this dogged trait in his character.
“It’s this way, chief,” explained Dolan at last. “I robbed the bank, I got the money, and it’s now where you will never find it. I did it by myself, and am willing to take my medicine. Nobody helped me. My wife—I know your men waited for her before they took me—my wife knows nothing on earth about it. She had no connection with the thing at all and she can prove it. That’s all I’m going to say. You might just as well make up your mind to it.”
Detective Mallory’s eyes snapped.
“You will tell where that money is,” he blustered, “or—or I’ll see that you get—”
“Twenty years is the absolute limit,” interrupted Dolan quietly. “I expect to get twenty years—that’s the worst you can do for me.”
The detective stared at him hard.
“And besides,” Dolan went on, “I won’t be lonesome when I get where you’re going to send me. I’ve got lots of friends there—been there before. One of the jailers is the best pinochle player